Ghosts of Manhattan (29 page)

Liberty. That was what he was fighting for. Liberty for himself, and for the people of New York. Liberty for Flora. Liberty for the Ghost.

Donovan had finally managed to get through to the Ghost on the holotube, after trying him five or six times at the apartment. The vig ilante had picked him up around the back of the precinct, this time in full regalia, and had explained to him the situation with the jazz singer, Celeste Parker, and the snitch, Jimmy the Greek, as they drove at speed toward the Battery. Donovan understood the man's pain, understood his need to keep busy, to get to the woman before it was too late. He hoped it wasn't already too late. But he feared the worst. He wondered what it would do to the vigilante. He could hardly be described as sane at the best of times. Would this be enough to push him completely over the edge?

Donovan climbed out of the car. It was cold, and a stiff wind was gusting in off the harbor. He turned up the collar of his borrowed coat. As the Ghost climbed out of the driver's side, Donovan paced around the edge of the building, looking for any signs of life. To his surprise, he saw another vehicle was parked beneath a tree, carefully positioned so as to be out of sight from the main approach to the building. It was sleek and black, its rear end facing toward him as he moved closer. He could see that the back of the car had been modified: the coal hopper shortened and a third exhaust funnel extended out of the engine housing. There was no mistaking it. The three-funneled car. Gideon Reece was there.

Frantically, Donovan beckoned the Ghost over. The vigilante trudged across the gravel courtyard toward him, and when he saw what had caught Donovan's attention, a wide grin spread across his face. He flicked his arm, and the barrel of his strange gun ratcheted up into position along his forearm. Donovan mirrored the grin and slipped his handgun out of his pocket, cracking it open to ensure that it was fully loaded. Now was their chance. This was it.

He watched as the Ghost pulled a short blade from inside his left boot and approached the car. He walked around it once, glancing in through the windows, checking to ensure it wasn't alarmed or boobytrapped. Then, satisfied, he dropped to his knees and gashed the tires one by one, moving around the vehicle quickly. When he was done, he returned to Donovan's side. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely audible above the howling wind. "That should stop the bastard slipping away again."

Both men clearly understood the need for subtlety. They didn't want to risk alerting Reece to their presence. Using hand gestures to signal their intentions, they parted. The Ghost went left, Donovan right, fanning out as they approached the main entrance to the power station, one on either side of the grand doorway.

As he stood with his back to the wall, his shoulder throbbing, watching for the Ghost to make the next move, Donovan wondered what he would do when he found himself facing the crook. Could he pull the trigger in cold blood? Surely that was the right thing to do, the quickest, easiest way to end all of this. The man deserved it, needed to pay for the things he had done. But Donovan was a police officer, and he bristled at the thought of murder. He believed in the judicial system. That was what separated him from men like the Ghost, and while he recognized the need for such men, he also recognized the need for order, a structure to society. There was a fundamental line between what was right and what was wrong, and Donovan had yet to cross it. Besides, they needed Reece alive. He was their ticket to the Roman.

The entrance to the power station was a large stone doorway that housed two white wooden doors. There was an inscription on the lintel above the doors, words chiseled out in neat Latin script, and for the life of him Donovan could not decipher what it said. He didn't suppose it mattered. It was probably some obscure Roman reference, like the coins left in the vicinity of the murder victims.

Donovan swallowed. He didn't believe in fate, but something had brought him here, with Gideon Reece on the other side of the door. He decided not to question it too closely. Instead, he watched as the Ghost reached over and turned the handle, so slowly it was almost painful, swinging one of the double doors open. It folded inward, the new hinges squealing loudly. A tense moment passed, and then, hefting his weapon, Donovan stepped cautiously inside.

The interior of the power station had to be one of the most remarkable sights the inspector had ever seen. All around him, confronting him almost immediately as he stepped through the doors, were vast banks of Tesla coils: huge gray wire cages, spitting out millions of volts of electricity, each of them crackling with ribs of lightning, blue and white plasma that spat and snapped at the air in all conceivable directions. Donovan could feel the static charge tugging at his hair, perme ating the atmosphere. There was a smell of fresh ozone, like the heady scent left behind by a storm. The entire setup was strangely, mystically beautiful.

The Ghost closed the door behind them, and then took a moment to drink in the view. There was no doubting it was an impressive sight, and Donovan could see how easy it must have been for the Roman, and for Reece, to enamor potential investors with its magic. The sight of even one of these strange machines would be enough to bring people flocking, handing over their cash in exchange for the dreams of the future it granted. This was real power, the ability to wield such amazing energy. He wondered once again what purpose it served for the Roman.

He tore his eyes away from the flickering banks of machines and focused on their immediate problems. Reece was nowhere to be seen. They were standing in a small open space that comprised a lobby. It was about the size of the Ghost's living room. The floor was a grid of iron struts, which continued on to form a short staircase leading up to a network of gangplanks and walkways that weaved like a spider's web amongst the crackling coils. There was a small desk here, too, but it was not manned, covered with large heaps of paper: diagrammatic drawings and blueprints. The Ghost approached the desk, rifled through these ephemera. He looked up at Donovan and shrugged. "There's nothing untoward about this. Just building plans, architects' drawings, bills for materials."

Donovan nodded. That was how the mob worked. They kept everything above board, on paper at least. Their business dealings were impeccable. But behind those fronts, those regular-seeming establishments and corporations, they hid their true colors.

Donovan crossed to the short stairwell. There was only one other path to take from here, and that was into the forest of coils. Somewhere, he figured, there would be a control room, and that was where they would find Gideon Reece. His feet clanged on the iron steps, and he tried to lighten his step, to move with more grace and less noise. He felt jumpy, nervous, even, as he anticipated what was to come. The Ghost followed behind him in silence.

The proximity of the Tesla coils made Donovan's skin crawl. So much power. He didn't really understand how they worked; had never been able to fathom the inner workings of machines. To him it was like magic-flick a switch and the lightbulb blinked on. That was all he knew. That was all he needed to know.

Breathing hard, Donovan prowled along the gangway, constantly aware of what was going on around him, looking out for any sign of his nemesis. The walkways weaved and twisted like arteries connecting the flickering electrical organs of the power station; an all-powerful giant rendered from iron and given life. The two men navigated them like a maze, taking note of each junction so that they could retrace their steps when they happened upon a dead end. He thought of Reece like a deadly spider, lying in wait at the center of his web.

As it transpired, however, Reece was not waiting for them at the center of the web. When they finally found the control station, there was no one there. The room was bare, open to the gangway and consisting of only two stud walls and a glass partition, propped up against the iron framework that supported the walkway and the nearest bank of coils. Five large panels of winking diodes, white dials, and steel switches lined the furthest wall, whilst a large map of Manhattan was pinned on the other. There was a series of small colored pins dotted over the surface of the map, denoting-Donovan guessed-the locations of substations and relay towers, emanating out from the power station across the Battery in a long, curving line. The thin glass partition offered them a view of another nearby bank of coils, each of the incredible machines still spitting electricity into the air.

The Ghost crossed to the control panels, studied the readouts for a few moments, and then turned his attention to the map. Donovan kept watch, his palm sweaty against the butt of his revolver. He didn't understand any of this, and wanted to make sure Reece wasn't about to sneak up behind them.

Four, five minutes passed. Finally, the Ghost called him over. "Donovan. Look here." His voice was urgent. Donovan abandoned his vigil on the gangway and approached the map, following the line traced by the Ghost's finger. "Relay stations."

Donovan nodded. "Yes, I gathered as much."

"But look." The Ghost followed the line of pins. "All of the power is being siphoned off to one location. Here." He tapped at the map. "The readouts tell the same story. Everything. All of the power being generated here in the plant. The whole station has been designed to feed electricity to this one point on the map."

Donovan nodded. "That explains it. I bet the investors didn't bank on this. They thought they were buying into a new power station that would feed all of Lower Manhattan. They were never going to make any money out of this. If Landsworth and Williamson and the others were getting nervous about their investments, it explains why Reece had to finish them off. The Roman wouldn't have wanted the authorities sniffing around." He couldn't believe the sheer gall of the man.

A shoe scuffed on the metal gangway behind them. "My, my. I am impressed." The sinister, silky voice spoke from somewhere over Donovan's shoulder. He whirled round to see Gideon Reece standing on the walkway, five or six feet away, clutching his small silver pistol. Its nose was hovering between Donovan and the Ghost. "Drop your weapon, Inspector."

Donovan hesitated, thinking about rushing the crook, but then a quick wave of Reece's gun made him reconsider. He'd never make it, not without accepting another bullet. He didn't fancy those odds. He dropped into a crouch, keeping his eyes on Reece at all times, and placed his weapon on the iron platform before him.

"And you, too." Reece waved his gun at the Ghost. "Show me your hands."

Reluctantly, the Ghost lifted his arms above his head, releasing the trigger mechanism of his flechette gun, the small rubber bulb drooping from his sleeve on a snake of black piping. Donovan could see he was gritting his teeth. "Where is she, Reece?" the Ghost barked.

Reece looked momentarily confused, furrowing his brow. Then his face cracked into a wide grin. "The jazz singer?" His lips quivered as he suppressed a laugh. "Oh, now this really is beginning to get interesting-

"What have you done with her?"

Reece shook his head, adopting a patronizing tone. It was as if he was goading the Ghost, challenging him to make a move. "Is that it? Is that why you followed me here? For a woman?"

Donovan thought the Ghost was about to start forward. He was pent up, his neck muscles twitching; a bull readying itself to charge. If he did, Reece would undoubtedly put a bullet through him. He hoped the vigilante could restrain himself long enough for them to get a proper chance to take down the crook.

"What does the Roman want with all this power?" Donovan gave Reece a hard stare, trying to distract him from baiting the Ghost. All the while he was keeping his eye on the hand that held the silver pistol.

Reece shrugged. "He has his reasons. He doesn't pay people to ask questions." The crook smiled again, but it was an empty gesture; he clearly didn't know the truth. He tapped his foot. "I must say, gentlemen, that I'm impressed with your persistence. Particularly you, Inspector. I thought you might have given up long ago. You should have taken the money."

Donovan almost laughed, ignoring the gibe. "I suppose you plan to take us to the Roman?"

Reece sneered. "You presume too much, Inspector. Why wouldn't I just kill you here and be done with it?"

Donovan smiled inwardly. If that had been the man's intention, he'd have done it by now. He was boasting, proud of himself for catching the two men who had persistently been causing him problems. Donovan peered over Reece's shoulder. The crook was alone, and there were two of them. He bided his time.

The Ghost was still seething, obviously waiting for an opportunity to pounce. That was good. If Reece thought the Ghost was the dangerous one, the one who would make a rash move, then that left things wide open for Donovan.

"If you've harmed her, Reece ..." The Ghost's voice was subdued, full of menace.

Reece was nonchalant. He turned his body slightly toward the vigilante as he provoked him with more taunts. "You're too late to save her now, any-"

Donovan dove. He sailed through the air toward the crook, his arms outstretched, colliding bodily with the thin man and sending them both tumbling along the gangway. Reece cried out in surprise, as if indignant that the policeman had even dared to attack him. But he was caught off guard. He squeezed the trigger of his gun as they went down. There was a sharp crack, and the bullet shot away harmlessly into the power station, clanging off a distant coil.

Donovan grabbed for Reece's wrist, slamming his gun hand back against the iron struts over and over again, whilst at the same time trying to pin the crook's shoulders down with his weight and his damaged shoulder. Reece was strong, far stronger than his figure suggested. He maintained his grip on the silver pistol and fought back, half getting himself into a sitting position. Donovan raised his right fist and struck the man hard across the jaw, but the blow lacked real power, tempered by the pain in his shoulder, the weakness caused by the bullet wound. It was enough, however, to distract Reece for a second, just long enough for Donovan to knock the weapon out of his hand. The silver pistol went sliding away across the gangway behind them, skittering to a stop in the crackling shadow of a Tesla coil.